


Special: agent, mother, lover, fighter

by spencerjareau



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:09:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spencerjareau/pseuds/spencerjareau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It changes you, this job. Almost imperceptibly you notice yourself becoming someone else, something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

It changes you, this job. Almost imperceptibly you notice yourself becoming someone else, something else. You find yourself taking risks you wouldn’t usually take, doing things you never would have done when you started. You told yourself that you’d maintain your distance, that you’d always play by the rules, but somewhere along the way those rules become less important. It’s why we’ve had such a high turnover of new agents in the past couple of years: they transfer in, lives already settled, careers already forged, and they think they’re ready for the challenge. When they start slipping, losing something of themselves, they notice – the people around them notice – and they claw it back. It’s why Alex chose her husband over her career, despite everything they’d agreed to the contrary: she looked in the mirror one day and realised she liked who she was more than she liked who she was becoming. For some people, the ones we save can never be enough to balance out the ones we don’t. That doesn’t make them weak; it just makes them different.  
Spence compiled me a file on Tavon Askari because he thought it’d help. I know it would help him; I know it works for him, thinking of murderers and rapists and psychopaths as puzzles to solve, a mathematical equation of biology, psychology and socialisation that couldn’t have ended any other way. But it doesn’t help me. I looked at those files and all I could feel was dread, utter dread, and horror that the humanity and basic goodness in him wasn’t enough to overrule the rest.  
He couldn’t give me a word, so it’s still Tavon Askari: Tavon Askari in my dreams and in the corner of my eye, in my reflection and behind the shower curtain when I’m running my hands over that goddamn scar for the millionth time. I lived and he died. We tell our survivors that they’re lucky, that with time and help they will heal. And maybe they will. Some of them do. Tracy Bell plays soccer for her school now; she sends a Christmas card to the unit every year.  
I look at our team and I wonder how they survived. We’ve all had trauma. Hotch lost his wife, but he’s still standing. Spence, he’s been through so much and yet I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him break down. When Penelope got shot, Morgan and I spent a year alternating shifts sleeping on her couch, but look at her now. And I look in the mirror – really look – and wish I could be like them.  
So I ring Emily. Because Will would get it, I know, but how can I look my husband in the eye and tell him that sometimes the darkness in me is so overwhelming that I wish I’d died right there on that concrete floor? The cross-continental calls are expensive but who gives a fuck, really. She’s at work usually, spends her nights working late to “nail these skeezy bastards to the wall” – her words, not mine. She’ll tell me about her salsa teacher’s impressive moustache and swinging hips, about the friend in the office who’s trying to talk her into going on a blind date with her brother. If you didn’t know her like I do, you wouldn’t see the cracks. I take a deep breath and tell her everything. It’s a week after Spence gave me the file and this old office is still full of his ghost, but even though it’s past midnight and everyone’s gone home, I needed a locked door between the outside world and my secrets.  
She listens when I tell her about the darkness that won’t go away, no matter how many times I scrub myself clean of his touch. I tell her about the baby I never got to know, the way I’m running myself into the ground like I haven’t done since I was a teenager getting in shape for tryouts – boxing running pilates anything to take up less space, to retain some control over this situation. I tell her that for the first time, I understand my sister, and that’s when I break. “I can’t do this, Emily.”  
That’s how I end up in London with nothing but a go bag and a bag of Cheetos. I left a message for Will and a note for Hotch; I’m owed leave, and Will’s at his sister’s with Henry. I spend the plane ride with my head against the window wondering where it all went wrong. I used to be good at smiling through the doubt and uncertainty, at convincing people that life was precious and worth living and saving. But last week I wilfully put myself in danger, and it’s a line I’ve never crossed before but damn, it felt good. I don’t know when I became so convinced that the best thing I could do for this world is to sacrifice myself for the greater good. It feels sometimes like the only power I have left is wilful surrender. We tell people not to bottle it up, but what else am I meant to do? Morgan is the champion of buried hurt. Spence is like my little brother; I’ve been protecting him ever since he stuttered over asking me out a decade ago, and how do I tell the kid who lost his soulmate that I’m losing my own fight? Penelope spends her life looking for the bright patches in this dark dark job, and I won’t be the one to dim the sparkle for her, not now she’s found it again. Rossi doesn’t have the time. And Hotch… Hotch would pull me out of the field.  
She’s waiting for me at the airport, dark hair pale skin and relief in her eyes because even though I promised, I don’t think she believed for sure I’d last the flight. Then her arms are around me and it doesn’t matter anymore that I can’t hold it together because Emily gets it. We’re both as beaten up as each other, dark and light but mainly dark, and she doesn’t comment on the dullness in my eyes because she’s been here, and she survived. “You’ll be okay,” she whispers, and I swallow, clinging onto the conviction in her voice almost as tight as I’m clinging to her body.


	2. 2

I almost shot her once, point blank in a dirty bathroom. Spence was missing, kidnapped, tortured, and I was trying to look myself in the eye, haunted by my glaring error in judgement and the ghosts of those goddamn dogs. I wonder whether she remembers that. She was still pretty new then, still feeling like the new kid on the fringes of the group. I know because she seemed nervous when she offered me the out – like I was going to refuse, wild-haired, wild-eyed, still in the same clothes I’d faced off with my nightmares in. That was the first time I was really in danger, looking back. It wasn’t all dazzling smiles for the camera and making nice with reporters back then; I spent time in the field, I carried a gun with me wherever necessary. But ending up at the house of a violent unsub? Definitely more dangerous than I’d been expecting. We never should have been there together, Spence and I; the whizz kid and the liason. He should’ve gone with Morgan, or Hotch, or even Emily – somebody experienced enough to look out for him. The others thought we didn’t know that they saw us as the babies of the team, but we were both well aware. We saw ourselves that way too; it’s why he was so determined to split up, so that he could apprehend Hankel and keep me out of danger. And it’s why I was so reluctant. Reluctant, but ultimately I went along with it, and I should’ve known better.  
She’s making up a bed on the couch, and I’m watching her, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea. I missed her gravity, her confidence – she can alter the mood of a room just by walking into it. She moves with purpose, always, yet retains some element of freedom, bounce. I smile weakly as she turns to look at me. “You look a little better.”  
I laugh. “I look like crap, Em.” And I do. I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night, the last time I washed my hair. There’s a lot I don’t remember, but for each lost recollection, there’s a crystal clear memory of Afghanistan, of that concrete basement, of Askari’s eyes.  
Emily raises an eyebrow. “I think Mr FBI would still have you, honey.” She comes to sit next to me, our knees touching.  
I snort, put on a deep voice. “’It’s classified, ladies.’” We were different people back then, all of us: Em with her unabashed confidence, me with my wisecracks, Penelope with more innocence than she’s managed to retain. I sigh, leaning my head on her shoulder. She wraps an arm round me, and I don’t remember the last time I felt this safe.  
It’s quiet for so long that when she speaks, I think I’m imagining it. “I’ve never been as scared as I was when Hotch told me you were missing,” she says, her voice soft.  
I swallow. Virginia air, cool night, then pain and restraints and taken. Like a bad film. I thought I was going to die.  
“I thought I’d lost you.” And she sounds so broken by this possibility that I don’t know how to fix it. Will’s my husband, but she’s my soulmate, and I thought I’d lost her once, too – it scared the hell out of me. I would have done anything to know she was still okay. And I did. She did, too.  
I sit up, swivel to face her. “I… I gave him the code,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I thought I was strong, I thought I was loyal, but I’m not. He broke me, Em.” That realisation haunts me just as much as the memories of the torture he inflicted upon me; the electricity screaming through my body, his hands ghosting down my abdomen, the sight of Cruz, bloodied, beaten.  
It’s hard to look at her. It’s a wound I haven’t discussed with anyone: not Will, not Spence. I know everyone knows I broke under duress, because the alarm went off and that, ultimately, is how they found me. It’s a good thing, I tell myself, because what if I hadn’t? Would they have found us in time? Would Cruz have died of his injuries? Would I?  
She reaches for my hand like she has done a million times before. The gesture feels comforting, familiar. “You’re the strongest person I know, Jayje,” she tells me, her voice cool and calm like the ocean on a summer’s day.  
I breathe in shakily, raise my head up to meet her eye. “But I gave in,” I manage, before the sobs overtake me.  
And then her arms are around me and she’s stroking my back as I cry, hideous gulping sobs that do my already-dishevelled appearance no favours, I’m sure, but that’s the last of my worries as I comprehend, truly comprehend, maybe for the first time, everything I lost: my baby, my self-belief, my sense of self. My faith.  
I don’t know how long I cry for, but at some point she pulls back and looks me in the eye, wiping the tears from my cheeks. The look in her eyes is so tender that it almost sets me off again. “Jennifer Jareau,” she says, her tone gentle but leaving no room for argument. “He didn’t break you, he bent you. And if a professional torturer can’t break you, then I’d say you’re pretty much invincible.” She raises her eyebrows at me.  
I swallow, manage a teary smile. “I feel pretty broken.”  
“I know, honey, and that’s okay. But you’ll come back from this.” I’ve never seen her look so sure of anything, and that’s the thing that makes me think that maybe, just maybe, it will be okay.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has no photos in her flat. I mean, like, none.

She has no photos in her flat. I mean, like, none. I don’t really notice until I’m wandering around the place looking for a clean mug (Emily is organised in many ways, but her home storage system is not logical), but after that I can’t stop noticing. She has a wall-to-floor bookcase that almost rivals Spence’s: Kurt Vonnegut, the classics, some biographies and a couple of shelves of DVDs; some salsa music in the small collection of CDs, which makes me smirk. Sergio rubs himself against my legs and I crouch to pick him up, holding him close.   
We wander into Emily’s room. “You don’t have any photos,” I say. She’s lying on her back reading, the book held at arm’s length above her face. She twists her head to look when she hears my voice.  
“I do too,” she argues, setting the book aside and rolling onto her front to look at me properly. Sergio wriggles impatiently in my arms, so I set him down and he runs to her, jumping up onto the bed. When I raise my eyebrows, she points to her nightstand.  
“That doesn’t count!” I protest when I see it. It’s a photo Will took at our wedding, way past 3am when my team were the only ones left. Emily had stolen someone’s fedora, adamant that she looked like the world’s most stylist pimp. It was meant to be a nice photo – we certainly all started out with our camera smiles on – but Morgan had poked Spence in the ribs just before Will pressed the button, and he’d freaked, dropped his drink on Penelope’s shoes and, well, we’re all in various states of shock and amusement.  
She smiles lazily. “It’s my favourite photo,” she says, scratching Sergio under his chin. “I miss you guys.”  
“We miss you too,” I reply, setting the photo back down and sitting on her bed, back against the headboard. Her brown eyes are so sad, and I hate it, hate that it came to this; Emily on the other side of the world and us missing her, always.  
She sighs and sits up, Sergio letting out a mewl of protest as he’s forced to relocate. “Have you thought about what you want to do?”  
We’d talked about it late into the night, where I go from here. I’d joked half-heartedly that you can’t get much more ‘rock bottom’ than almost killing yourself on a case, then fleeing the country. But my mind flashed back to Rosalyn, to that bright Monday morning when I was way too young to understand what I was seeing, and she’d sensed it and grabbed my hand – “Jen, listen to me, you are going to come back from this.”  
I bite my lip, close my eyes, nod. “I’ll make an appointment with a psychiatrist.” They’d forced me into a few sessions with the Bureau’s shrink when I got back, but it hadn’t stuck; talk therapy and profiling are a little too similar for my liking, and I guess I was better at convincing myself I was okay back then – repression is a wonderful thing.  
She nods slowly, her eyes searching mine. “You’re sure?” I spent middle school in a psychiatrist’s office; it happens when you’re the preteen whose sister killed herself. Even if I’d been perfectly fine, nobody would’ve believed me. I ended up back in therapy in college, too, when the rigorous diet and exercise regime I’d convinced everyone was conducive to my athletic performance led to me collapsing mid-game. You could say I have a record with therapy. And even after all the practice I’ve had at it, there are few things I hate more than sitting in a room with someone who is literally paid to analyse my feelings.  
I swallow. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” She’s one for the tough love approach, Emily Prentiss; gets you comfortable on her sofa with a mug of tea and makes you see all your flaws, your options, like a roadmap of your life, where-do-I-go-from-here style. She can be like those lights they use in changing rooms, the ones that highlight all your spots and stretch marks and make everyone look like crap. It’s hard to explain, but Emily doesn’t do it maliciously. She’ll listen for hours, and eventually you’ll talk yourself back round in a circle to the thing you don’t want to do but know you have to do.  
She shakes her head slowly. “There’s always a choice, but… no. Not really. Not if you want this to get better instead of worse.”  
I sigh. “I have to tell Hotch.” It’s a thought I don’t relish. Hotch is like my big brother, but before that he is my superior, and I am an agent with a duty to keep her superiors informed when her mental state is impacting her work. He is my superior, and I am in the wrong.  
“Honey, he’ll just be pissed at the Bureau shrink for letting you walk out of there in the first place,” she remarks. “I managed to convince her I was seeing a man called Sergio once; I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven her gullibility.”  
I narrow my eyes at her, unsure whether she’s joking. “For real?”  
“For real,” Emily confirms, unable to stop herself grinning. I burst out laughing. “Seriously though, JJ, go and see a real professional, not just somebody who’s paid to tick the boxes on a Bureau form. Hotch will just be glad you’re doing something about it.”  
“He’ll take me out of the field,” I murmur, pulling the sleeves of my jumper over my hands. I know I won’t lose my family over this – Will is a good man – but I could well lose my job.  
She shakes her head slowly. “Not forever. He and Garcia still share your liaison role, right?” I nod. “So he’ll probably give you that back for a while. Less time in the field, more time in the office. It’s less profiling than you’re doing right now, sure, but you know he won’t let you go. Not again.”  
She’s probably right, but it feels like a step backwards. The Jennifer Jareau who was a media liaison is not the Jennifer Jareau who came back from Afghanistan. It feels stupid that that experience could have changed me so much, even before the torture – it’s not like I was on the front line or anything. But I haven’t been that version of me for a while, and aside from anything, I don’t know if I’ll fit back into that template.  
I close my eyes briefly as I realise something. “Oh God, I’ll have to tell the rest of the team…” Projections of their concerned faces flash through my mind.  
“One step at a time, JJ,” Emily reminds me. “One step at a time.”


End file.
